Queer fiction. A mob boss takes in a rival’s hostage, and tries to keep him from suicide.
14k, M/M, rated E for equally explicit sex and violence. Set in 1920s New Jersey. Nasty and violent.
Alvis Hunter, boss of a significant crime operation, steals a captive out from under a hostage —Naham, a rabbi’s son who immediately attempts to kill himself. In the aftermath, Alvis tries to keep him alive; Naham tries to find something worth living for.
Some philosophy and introspection in this one along the way of the rape recovery. Warnings for rape and sexual violence, mental health issues, a crisis of faith, trauma, homophobia, intersexism, antisemitism, and other assorted violence.
“Hey, you speak English?” he asks. “Polsku? Italiano? Elliniká? Deutsch?” The boy freezes for a second, still shuddering, still whimpering, but his eyes flit to Alvie’s. “Deutsch, yeah? Sprechen sie Deutsch?” He narrows his eyes at the boy’s expression, wonders how old he is. With how fucking thin he is, all the bruises, his skin has turned sallow from lack of sun, and he’s gaunt, his cheeks hollowed, bags under his eyes, it’s hard to tell. “Redt ir Yidish?”
The boy’s breath hitches in his throat, his eyes widening, his head tipping back just slightly. It’s like he’s forgotten to cry, all the tears thick in his red-rimmed eyes like water in a glass, but not falling down his cheeks just yet.
“Okay,” says Alvie softly. “Okay. Ikh heys Alvis, olrayt? Uh… Fuck. Ikh… nisht keyn Yidish gut. Ikh— Is that right? Redt ir English?”
The boy is staring at him as if Alvie’s some kind of new invention, as if he’s something he can’t quite comprehend. When Rosa and Felix get to the landing, he hears Felix gasp and mutter something under his breath – Rosa tells him to shut the fuck up.
The boy glances at them, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks between them – and fuck, that must be sore with the fucking shiner he has on him – and then slowly back to Alvie.
“Redt ir English?” he asks again. “Du bist… kholye? Krank? Es iz schmerzlich? Dayne hent?” He holds up his hands, pushing them together like the boy is holding his, forced to hold his, and the boy looks from Alvie to his hands.
“Hant,” he whispers, holding up one of his hands as best he can from where they’re tied together, wiggling his fingers. Then he pushes his wrists together demonstratively, the way that Alvie just was. “Ha’ntgel’enk.” His voice is thick and hoarse from screaming.
“Okay,” Alvie says slowly. “Nisht… uh, nisht dayne hent. Dayne he’ntgel’enk?”
The boy laughs at him. He looks about as surprised to hear it as Alvie does. Laughing has shocked a few tears free, but he looks a little calmer now, slightly more relaxed.
“Ha’ntgel’enkn,” he corrects him, as if Alvis gives a fuck about the proper plural right about now. His lips are still curved in a smile, and the smile must fucking hurt with the way the skin’s been split – his front teeth are all in place, but Alvie can see a gap where one or two teeth have been knocked out on one side.
“Do they fucking hurt, or not?” Alvie asks.
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